Orange Sky
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Season 8 Finale – Sam's spine was not actually being ripped out through his mouth. It just felt like it was, causing pain and paralysis while taking Sam's breath and his ability to speak. Dean shook his head, refusing to believe he had just stopped Sam from killing himself in this third trial only to watch his little brother live the rest of his life wishing he was dead.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Season 8 Finale – Sam's spine was not _actually_ being ripped out through his mouth. It just _felt_ like it was, causing pain and paralysis while taking Sam's breath and his ability to speak. Dean shook his head, refusing to believe he had just stopped Sam from killing himself in this third trial only to watch his little brother live the rest of his life wishing he was dead.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine

**Warnings**: Usual language and spoilers for events in seasons seven and eight

**A/N**: I think you know by now that I like to put my own spin on things. "What if..." is sometimes my favorite phrase. So, strap in. Here we go...

* * *

_I stood beneath an orange sky with my brother standing by. I said, "Brother...in your love, my salvation lies." ~ Alexi Murdoch_

* * *

He was leaving.

His work here was done.

_Finally. _

After three years of falsely prophesying, after the past six months of pretending to translate the "demon tablet", he deserved a fucking break.

Because keeping up the constant pretense of who he was supposed to be was exhausting; keeping up with his own lies was draining.

And don't even get him started about having to tolerate the arrogance of hunters and angels.

Kevin snorted and shook his head in disgust at the memory of Dean and Cas appearing out of fucking nowhere several hours ago in the Men of Letters bunker with an "angel tablet" in hand; ordering him to translate it or else...that it was his duty...and blah, blah, blah.

Like Kevin had any duty beyond leading them astray; like his loyalty was sworn to anyone but Metatron.

Like any of these tablets were real; like any of these slabs of engraved stone really meant anything; like demons or angels would ever write down their thoughts for others to read.

No, dumbasses.

That wasn't how this worked.

Dean and Cas could growl and threaten and manhandle him all they wanted.

But in the end, these tablets were still useless; were nothing more than well-constructed props in a carefully planned, perfectly orchestrated play for power.

Because the _real_ tablets were in a different location; the _real_ tablets had been translated before the beginning of time by the true Keeper of the Word, the Scribe of God.

He was the one calling the shots and pulling the strings.

He was the one scripting every single word that Kevin spoke.

He was the one who knew the real outcome of the trials.

Metatron may have been a recluse, but he was also a fucking genius. Had been silently watching and waiting and scheming for countless years for _this_ moment. Had thought of everything; had covered every detail and loophole. Was the master of illusion – his words creating whatever reality he commanded. Humans and angels and everything in between bending to his will as he had manipulated every interaction, every situation to lead to this moment.

And now here it was – the gift of revenge _to_ Metatron, _from_ Metatron.

It was beautifully mind-blowing how each piece of this puzzle had finally clicked into place; how each word written and spoken had woven together to produce this.

Kevin nodded appreciatively.

It was an indescribable honor to be the one trusted enough to help turn the pages of this literary masterpiece; a story that would be read and studied and pondered for all eternity – an account of this day when the angels were cast from Heaven.

Kevin was _living it_ even as Metatron was _writing it_.

And that would never stop being awesome to the high school kid who had been lucky enough to be cast in the role of false prophet several years ago; who had been struck by lightning in his room and had been living a lie ever since.

Kevin smiled to himself. "I would like to thank my friends and family for their support..." he announced as if he was accepting an award for his stellar performance, his voice echoing through the silence of the Winchesters' bunker as he finished packing his bag.

Kevin snorted at his own words.

Because his friends and family were dead – some literally, others figuratively since they ceased to exist to him.

And that was fine.

He didn't need them and didn't miss them.

He had bigger and better things to pursue.

In fact, the current chapter of this epic story was due to end any second.

The dramatic turn of Metatron assuming power and complete control over Heaven and then casting the angels out.

Kevin was just waiting for the sign.

The false prophet checked his watch.

"Should be any time now..." Kevin commented, giving a final glance inside his backpack and confirming that he had grabbed everything he had been instructed to steal.

Most importantly, all of the Winchesters' journals – Henry's, John's, Dean's, and Sam's; along with a few specific books from the Men of Letters library...and of course, Kevin still had the key to the actual bunker itself.

That was a surprise.

Metatron would be pleased and would chuckle about the stupidity of humanity when Kevin told the angel that Dean had willingly given him the key.

_Dumbass, thy name is Human. _

Kevin smiled at the classic Metatron one-liner and zipped his backpack, shouldering his load and climbing the steps of the bunker; reaching the second level just as a red light suddenly glowed on the wall.

Red – the color of blood, the color of war and judgment in Scripture.

_Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. __Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth __and to make people kill each other..._

"Revelation 6:4," Kevin easily identified, knowing the Bible as well as any true prophet since falsehood was often rooted in truth.

Think on that.

Kevin twitched a smile as the light continued to glow its red warning.

It was the sign he had been waiting for.

And it was a fitting sign of what was happening, of what was to come.

Red...the red horseman – peace snatched by fallen angels roaming the earth with their own agendas.

It was poetic that the verse typically associated with the apocalypse could also be connected with this moment – a different kind of apocalypse.

Kevin nodded at the parallels and glanced down below as various other lights began to switch on, various tracking machines doing the same; the entire bunker erupting in a buzzing hum.

This was it.

It was happening.

This chapter was ending _now_.

And it was as exciting as Kevin had imagined.

The false prophet continued to watch the independently operating machines down below and then flinched when a piercing alarm began blaring from the wall.

Kevin scowled over his shoulder – because holy shit that was_ loud _– and then glanced at the red light still glowing before directing his attention to different red lights...the ones suddenly appearing in clusters on the illuminated map table.

Three guesses as to what those lights represented.

"And I remind you of the angels who did not stay within the limits of authority...but left the place where they belonged..."

Kevin turned, recognizing the voice behind him...and the verse.

"Jude 1:6," he replied, raising his voice to be heard over the alarm that continued to blare.

Metatron smiled and nodded. "Well done, good and faithful servant."

And he wasn't just praising Kevin's knowledge of the Bible or his ability to identify any verse quoted to him.

No.

Metatron was praising Kevin's role in this.

"Matthew 25:21," Kevin told the angel, unable to stop himself from labeling that verse as well.

Metatron chuckled, like an owner amused by the pet he had taught tricks, and then gestured to the hoopla of the bunker – the proverbial bells and whistles.

"Too flashy?" the angel asked, his tone and expression indicating that he was enjoying himself; that he had waited most of eternity for this moment.

Kevin smiled and shook his head. "Nothing is too flashy to announce the new King of Heaven."

Metatron nodded his approval of the ass-kissing response, reminded of why he had chosen Kevin as the false prophet; of why Kevin was his favorite pawn.

Because this kid knew his role; knew how to play the game and advance the plot; knew how to move the story forward.

Yep.

This kid would go far.

Or least far enough until he was no longer needed.

Then he would be discarded and replaced, a practice commonly used by writers to keep the story interesting.

Metatron nodded at his inner monologue, at his plans for Kevin, and then sighed. "Well, enough of that for now..." he grumbled about the alarms and lights and snapped his fingers, the crisp sound instantly silencing the bunker. "There. That's better."

Kevin hummed his agreement and waited.

Because that was part of his role - to wait for Metatron's orders.

The Scribe of God called the shots.

After all, this was his story.

It always had been.

Metatron clasped his hands in front of him and glanced around the bunker. "The place hasn't changed a bit," he commented fondly, as if he was visiting his old stomping grounds for the first time in a long time.

Kevin frowned. "You've been here before?"

Metatron shrugged. "It was years ago..." he responded, his answer vague and dismissive.

Kevin sighed at the angel's familiarly secretive behavior but said nothing.

Metatron smiled, sensing Kevin's frustration. "So, tell me..."

Kevin arched an eyebrow and shifted the backpack on his shoulder. "Tell you what?"

"About your day, of course..." Metatron replied like an interested parent, sounding as eager as he often did during his and Kevin's daily phone calls.

Not a single day going by over the past three years without Kevin having to report his progress and provide details about his interaction with the Winchesters.

And then days ago Metatron had pretended that he had never even _heard _of Sam and Dean?

Please...

It was all part of the master plan - the lying and the spying and the scripting.

Say _this_ instead of _that_ in order to achieve _this_ result.

Every sentence a line previously written with each word carefully chosen for maximum impact.

Every action blocked and choreographed.

It was exhausting, like performing a play 24/7 for the past three years.

Kevin sighed.

Yeah...he definitely deserved a fucking break.

But Kevin knew his break would be brief - these past few hours in the Winchesters' bunker and maybe a few more minutes now before it was showtime again.

The story never stopped until Metatron ended it.

And in some ways, Metatron's story was just beginning.

Kevin sighed again.

"Tell me all about your day," Metatron repeated, still staring at Kevin. "And then I'll tell you about mine..."

Kevin snorted.

Yeah, right.

And there was beach-front property available in Hell, too.

Kevin shook his head, knowing that scenario was more likely than Metatron telling him anything.

Because as Kevin had been informed numerous times before, false prophets – and all other characters in this story – were on a "need to know basis".

And most of the time, Metatron didn't think anyone needed to know anything except their part.

"I'm waiting..."

Kevin swallowed and nodded at the sing-songed warning, recognizing the polite threat in the angel's tone.

Because Metatron only _looked_ meek and harmless; his quiet voice and almost constant smile meant to mask the evil within.

But Kevin knew the true nature of the Scribe of God; knew that Metatron was not to be fucked with.

Which was why Kevin needed to start telling the angel what he wanted to know...or else.

Kevin shifted nervously where he stood, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder and clearing his throat. "Well..." he began. "I mean..." He glanced around the bunker, his anxiety increasing at the possibility that the Winchester brothers could return any second. "Shouldn't we do this somewhere else? Sam and Dean could – "

" – Sam and Dean are occupied right now," Metatron interrupted confidently and crossed to stand beside Kevin, leaning against the railing that bordered the second level; further threatening his false prophet just by his physical proximity. "I assure you. We have time to swap stories."

Always with the story references...

"So let's hear it..." Metatron continued, staring at Kevin and making it clear that he would not ask again.

The Scribe of God wanting to ensure his script had been followed for the crucial scene that had led to the angels' demise.

Kevin sighed. "Um...okay..."

He fidgeted where he stood, having not expected to give his report _now_.

Besides, wasn't it obvious that things had gone as planned?

Kevin sighed again.

Metatron blinked expectantly, his unseen pen poised to jot notes if needed.

"Well, I met them – "

" – and by 'them', you mean Sam and Dean?"

Kevin nodded, accustomed to the Scribe of God always being a stickler for details.

Metatron returned the nod. "Carry on."

Kevin swallowed. "I met them under that sign..."

"Ah, that sign..." Metatron commented fondly and chuckled at his own cleverness for having found the billboard with a larger-than-life portrayal of Lucifer. "Foreshadowing at its best, don't you think? A sign featuring a fallen angel...get it? A fallen angel predicting a fallin' angel."

Metatron chuckled again.

Kevin smiled. "Yeah. I get it," he replied and laughed lightly, having forgotten how uneasy Metatron made him feel whenever they were actually together. "In fact, even Dean said something about me hiding the demon tablet underneath the devil."

Metatron arched an interested eyebrow. "What was your response?"

Like they were running lines for a play...

Kevin shrugged, feeling the backpack lift on his shoulder. "I just said that was I delirious when I buried it."

"And they bought that, yes?"

Kevin nodded.

"Good," Metatron praised. "Then what?"

"Then I put the tablet together..."

"Did it light up?" Metatron asked, checking the effectiveness of his special effects.

"Yes," Kevin confirmed. "Just like we planned. The magnetic field worked...the two pieces just clicked together. And then the tablet kind of flashed a little. It was good. Very believable."

Metatron smiled, enjoying the story. "Your _performance_ has been very believable," he told his false prophet. "Outstanding, really. You have advanced this plot by committing to this role for _years_ now. We're talking method acting at its absolute _best_. Even your own mother believed you..."

Kevin nodded, aware that he should feel something about his mother being dead...but he didn't.

The bitch had been a pain in his ass, especially over the past three years.

Good riddance that Crowley's demons had finally done what Kevin had often wished he could do - kill the old woman.

There was a beat of silence.

Speaking of Crowley...

"Oh. We've been so busy with the trials and wrapping up this chapter..." Kevin commented. "But thanks for saving my ass, by the way. You know...when Crowley was strangling the crap outta me."

Metatron waved a dismissive hand, like a neighbor being unnecessarily thanked for a favor. "Don't mention it," the angel replied and paused. "Thank _you_ for pretending you didn't know me when you woke."

Kevin shrugged. "Just delivering my lines."

Metatron nodded his agreement.

There was another beat of silence.

"Okay..." Metatron sighed, getting back to business. "After the tablet was magically snapped together, then what?"

"Then I gave it to Sam," Kevin reported. "And then Dean gave me the key to this place...and – "

" – whoa," Metatron interrupted, holding up his hand. "Key?"

Kevin smiled, having known this detail would interest Metatron.

The Scribe of God always knowing what Kevin would say and do because the angel had scripted his words and actions.

But the words and actions of others not specifically scripted by Metatron - like Sam and Dean - were a constant source of entertainment for the angel.

"Well...my, my..." Metatron mused. "Those Winchesters are just full of surprises." He smiled. "Let me see it."

"Sure," Kevin agreed, having expected that order, and pulled the key from his coat pocket.

"And I will give you the keys of the Kingdom..." Metatron quoted, taking the key from his false prophet.

"Matthew 16:19," Kevin responded.

Metatron nodded. "This is good," he declared, staring at the key. "This is _very_ good," he added and pocketed the key for his own purposes. "What else? Did you get the journals and the books?"

Kevin patted the backpack on his shoulder. "In here."

Metatron nodded again. "Good. I miss the library in this place," he commented nostalgically and then sighed. "What else was said?" he asked, referencing the roadside rendezvous with the Winchesters.

Kevin shook his head. "Not much. After I took the key, they were walking away, and I told them that they were doing the right thing."

Metatron chuckled. "Spoken like a good prophet..."

Kevin snorted at being described as such. "Yeah, I guess. They seemed to buy it."

"Of course they did," Metatron replied. "You're perfect in this role. My words paired with your acting...we're unstoppable, kid."

Kevin smiled nervously at the praise.

"Okay. So they left, then you came here, and...?"

"I was just, you know...chillin'."

Metatron scowled at the slang.

Kevin cringed. "Sorry. I mean...um...enjoying my leisure time."

Metatron nodded his approval of the correction.

Kevin swallowed. "But then Dean and Cas showed up with the angel tablet."

Metatron chuckled once more. "Ah, the angel tablet. Gets funnier every time I hear it..."

Kevin twitched a smile. "I even asked them if it was a joke..."

"Because the joke was on _them..._" Metatron finished.

Kevin's smile widened. "Exactly...but they didn't get it."

Metatron rolled his eyes. "Of course they didn't."

"Cas answered that no, it was the Word of God."

"Of course he did," Metatron agreed dryly, still leaning against the railing that bordered the second level of the Winchesters' bunker. "When actually, none of the angels would know the true Word of God even if it bit them in the ass...which is why it has been so easy to pass counterfeits all this time. Nobody knows what the hell they're looking at...or _for_."

He shook his head in annoyance.

"Anyway...continue."

Kevin sighed. "Well, Dean told me to translate it because that's 'what I do'."

"That's what he _thinks_ you do," Metatron corrected.

Kevin nodded.

"And you said...?"

"I told them that I had never even _seen_ the angel tablet..."

"Good boy..."

"...and how could I translate it in six _hours_ when half of the demon tablet had taken me six _months_."

"Excellent," Metatron praised. "I love how you always stick to the script, Kevin." He paused. "Did you remember the part about your dead mom?"

Kevin nodded. "Yeah. I said the whole 'six months and a dead mom' line. And you were right. That was good."

"Dean is always sensitive to references about dead mothers," Metatron informed. "Very effective. Always remember that."

Kevin nodded again. "And then I told Dean that translating was not what I _do_, it's what I _did_."

"I just love that reversal of word tense. So powerful when making a point..."

"Yeah," Kevin agreed. "But then that total dick grabbed me – "

" – wait, wait...which one?"

Because at last count, there had been two on the premises – both Dean and Cas.

"Cas."

Metatron smiled at the nickname, feeling the small vial of glowing essence in his pocket. "Ah, Castiel..." He paused. "I assure you that he will no longer cause trouble," the Scribe of God told his false prophet about that particular ex-angel. "Continue."

Kevin tilted his head Metatron's comment and then clenched his jaw, freshly pissed at the scene he was about to describe. "He grabbed me and lifted me up and told me that I was never out of this. That it was my duty, and that I was a prophet of the Lord..."

Metatron snorted.

"...and that I would be a prophet always and forever, until I ceased to exist and then another prophet would take my place."

Metatron shrugged.

Because actually...that part was true.

Kevin would be kept around to spread falsehoods as prophecy until it was time for another character to take his place.

And so the story would be written...

There was a pause.

"Then what?" Metatron prompted.

Kevin shook his head. "Then Cas threw me into the table with the angel tablet and asked if I was clear about the task before me."

"And you said...?"

"Nothing," Kevin responded. "I just nodded and they left. Then Dean called later to – "

" – yes, I know," Metatron interrupted. "I heard that conversation."

Kevin frowned his confusion since Metatron usually _knew_ of conversations because he had scripted most of them, but the angel rarely heard them unless...

Metatron nodded. "I was tracking Naomi at that point," he confirmed. "I heard everything in that scene."

"Dude..." Kevin breathed, remembering that moment. "When she started saying all that crap about how you were lying about wanting to fix Heaven...and how she had been inside your head..." He swallowed at the memory. "I thought that was it. I thought our cover was _blown_."

"Ah, ye of little faith..." Metatron scoffed and then glanced at Kevin expectantly.

Kevin chuckled at this game. "Matthew 8:26."

Metatron nodded, paused. "I knew that Castiel would not believe Naomi. Too much had happened between them. The lines of trust had been irreparably severed. And where there's no trust, there's doubt. And where there's doubt, there's me..." he proudly proclaimed. "Bending the truth to fit my story."

Kevin nodded, familiar with the ways in which Metatron worked. "But still...she just kept on and on about how angels were going to be cast out of Heaven..."

Metatron shrugged. "Every story needs a little rising action and climax."

"Yeah, well...your rising action and climax almost gave me a heart attack," Kevin commented dryly, still able to feel the tightness in his chest from that moment.

Metatron shook his head. "It was all going as planned," he assured.

Kevin didn't dispute it.

Everything always went the way Metatron planned.

And even when it _didn't_ go as planned, the Scribe of God had scripted alternate lines to fill in the gaps and redirect the story back to his plot.

Which was why Kevin always had to memorize so many different scenarios, so the false prophet would be prepared for whatever response the other characters not under Metatron's direct control came up with...and would be able to guide the story back on track.

Kevin really did deserve a fucking award.

"Anyway..." Kevin sighed. "Then Dean gets back on the phone and asks me if Naomi was lying in her little speech – "

" – and you told him you didn't know," Metatron finished. "Just like a good little prophet."

Kevin rolled his eyes. "Just sticking to the script..."

_Always_ sticking to the script...or unpleasant things would happen.

"Just like a good little prophet," Metatron repeated, as if Kevin's statement had only proved it.

Kevin nodded. "Yeah, well..."

He liked living.

Metatron smiled.

Kevin swallowed. "That's it. Dean hung up after that, and I think you know the rest."

"I do," Metatron confirmed and gestured to the now silent machines in the bunker. "And I guess you knew the rest as well."

Kevin nodded again, remembering the signs – the glowing red light and blaring alarm.

"The angels fell."

"Like rocks," Metatron reported and grinned with pure delight. "Like _flaming_ rocks," he added. "Wingless, insignificant little flies plunging to earth." He paused. "It was a sight to behold. I'm not even sure my words can do it justice."

Kevin smiled. "I'm sure they'll come to you," he replied, referring to the words.

Metatron nodded. "They usually do," he agreed, like the literary Pied Piper he was.

There was silence.

Kevin shifted where he stood, realizing the implications of what had happened.

"So...if the angels fell, that means Naomi is...?"

"Dead," Metatron answered. "The instrument she used to see inside my head is now buried into the side of hers."

Kevin cringed at the visual. "And Cas?"

"An angel no more," Metatron informed, patting his pocket where the vial of essence was safely tucked away.

Kevin nodded, remembering Metatron outlining all of this before the trials had started – who would die and who would live and who would never be the same.

But there was still one question.

"What about the gates of Hell?"

"Wide open."

Kevin blinked his surprise. "Wow. So, that means..."

"It does," Metatron confirmed. "Sam is alive."

"For now," Kevin returned.

"For as long as he wishes," Metatron countered. "He is safe from death until he completes the third trial."

"Yeah," Kevin agreed. "But his condition will continue to deteriorate until the third trial _is_ complete. I mean...that's how these trials work. After a while, he'll _wish_ he was dead. You ever had _your_ spine ripped out through your mouth?"

Metatron scowled. "That is not to be taken literally, and you know it," he admonished his false prophet. "Besides, Sam Winchester's well-being is not my concern," he reminded. "He agreed to undertake the trials and thus also agreed to endure their effects, however temporary or permanent they may be."

Kevin shrugged his agreement. "Guess so. But how is he ever going to get out of the third trial unless he completes it? The only way _out_ is _through_. Even you've said that. Which means Sam can't just stop in the middle."

Metatron smiled, amused by this conversation. "The Winchesters are a willful bunch, a stubborn bloodline. Over the years, they've accomplished many things that supposedly could not be done." He paused. "But as I've explained to you before, while they are fascinating to watch and interact with, they are not my characters. Someone else is writing their story – a prophet...a_ real_ prophet. "

Kevin rolled his eyes at the jibe. "Yeah, yeah..." he dismissed, because who wanted to be a real prophet anyway? "But Sam and Dean's story is now part of _yours_."

"In a way, yes..." Metatron agreed.

"So that makes them your characters."

"No," Metatron replied and then sighed when Kevin stared at him. "It's complicated. While their story has indeed intersected with mine, we have different endings."

"What's theirs?"

"Don't know, don't care," Metatron replied and sighed irritably. "After the next few minutes, the Winchesters will no longer be my concern."

Kevin frowned, wondering what that meant...but knowing better than to ask; recognizing the Scribe of God's expression as his cue to choose a different topic.

"Okay..." Kevin allowed. "Fine. So, what about Hell?"

"What about it?" Metatron returned. "That's not my concern, either. Nor is it yours. Hell has a new leader. Abbadon has successfully reclaimed her throne and will rule her realm as I will rule Heaven. She and I have worked well together for years. I am not concerned."

Kevin arched an eyebrow. "An angel working with a demon?"

"It is not the first time, I assure you. One must take advantage of opportunity no matter how it's disguised," Metatron wisely advised. "My alliance with the Queen of Hell is fragile but exists nonetheless. As is said in _Chicago_, when you're good to Mama, Mama's good to you."

Kevin blinked, unfamiliar with musicals and clueless to the reference.

Metatron chuckled. "Never mind," he dismissed. "Long story, short – now that I'm in charge of Heaven, I have bigger issues than Castiel or the Winchesters or even Hell. Much bigger issues...and so do you."

Kevin sighed, anxious about the next responsibility of his role – the reveal.

The false prophet swallowed at the thought, not looking forward to telling Dean Winchester that the past three years had been a lie; that he had known what would happen to Sam in the end...and had kept quiet; had just continued to recite his lines as written by Metatron in order to achieve Metatron's goal - complete control of Heaven.

Kevin sighed and glanced at the angel standing beside him. "Congratulations. For, you know...your promotion."

Metatron twitched a smile. "Well, that was incredibly delayed..." he commented. "But thank you," he graciously replied. "It feels good when a story comes together, when the plot advances in the way that you planned. But...as any writer knows, it is not wise to bask too long in the success of one chapter before moving on to the next."

"Which I guess is your subtle way of telling me that the next chapter starts now?" Kevin clarified, then frowned when his phone started ringing.

Metatron smiled as if Kevin's phone had rung right on time. "Indeed it does."

Kevin arched an eyebrow at the angel's knowing tone and dug his phone from his coat pocket, readjusting his backpack on his shoulder and then sighing harshly at the name on the caller display.

Kevin glanced at Metatron. "It's Dean."

Metatron nodded. "Indeed it is." He paused. "I think you know what to do."

Kevin blinked at the unspoken order. "Now?"

Metatron wanted him to reveal himself as a false prophet _now? _

No more practice? No more dress rehearsals for the big moment?

Metatron smiled. "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven..."

Kevin scowled. "Seriously? You're using Ecclesiastes 3:3 on me right now?"

Metatron chuckled, sometimes reminded that at his core, Kevin was still just a moody teenager. "Answer the call. It's what begins the next chapter."

Kevin swallowed, glancing back at his ringing phone.

"Relax," Metatron soothed. "Just do what you always do, Kevin. Stick to the script and let the story unfold. But first..."

Kevin narrowed his eyes as the angel reached for him, grasping his shoulder. "Oh, here we go..." he groaned, because he knew what this meant.

Metatron's smile widened. "If Dean is calling you, then he and his brother are heading back here. So, let's have a little change of scenery, shall we?" he asked half a second before he disappeared from the Men of Letters bunker in a flutter of invisible wings, taking Kevin with him.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

"Listen...I may not be able to carry the burden that comes along with these trials," Dean had told Sam that night several weeks ago; had stared through the rain-splattered windshield as the Impala had rumbled down the road and Sam had sat beside him in the passenger seat where the kid belonged. "But I can carry you."

_I can carry you._

And Dean had meant it.

Those four words having defined his responsibility as a big brother for as long as Dean could remember.

I can carry you out of a burning house...or out of a burning apartment.

I can carry you when your eyes are bleeding...or when a vision strikes.

I can carry you when you're too sick to stand...or when you're too weak to walk.

_I can carry you._

Whenever it was needed, Dean had carried Sam throughout his life.

And Dean would do that now – would carry Sam.

It was his promise.

It was his instinct.

The big brother instantly reaching for his little brother when Sam collapsed in the church; when Sam closed his eyes and half moaned, half yelled as pain suddenly knifed through him seconds before he dropped to the floor.

In that moment, Dean's heart dropped as well.

Because no – _no_.

This was _not_ happening.

Sam had not completed the third trial.

He had let go...which meant he was supposed to be safe.

And Sam had _seemed_ safe – his arms had stopped glowing, the pain had vanished.

Sam had even twitched a smile and had huffed an amazed but relieved laugh as he had held Dean's gaze.

For a fraction of a second, everything had seemed fine.

Sam had still been sick and weak and pale and exhausted both physically and emotionally...but everything had been fine.

Then the second had passed and now...

"Sam!" Dean called and followed his brother to the floor.

Sprawled in a motionless heap, Sam stared at Dean as Dean crouched beside him; his bandaged hand desperately fisting the fabric of Dean's coat as his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

But Sam wasn't speaking.

Hell, it looked like Sam was hardly _breathing_.

Dean's heart hammered in his chest. "What?" he frantically asked his brother, his hand covering Sam's as the kid continued to grip the edge of his coat; his gaze sweeping the length of Sam's body looking for something, _anything_.

But there was nothing to see.

Nothing to indicate what was wrong...what had happened...what was _still_ happening.

Dean's heart continued to pound even as he kept his voice calm, lowering his head for a better view of his brother's face. "Sammy..."

Sam blinked at him, his mouth open in a silent scream; his expression pleading for Dean to help him, for Dean to fix this.

"I will," Dean promised, the vow bone-deep. "I will." He briefly squeezed his brother's hand. "But Sam..._talk to me_," he ordered, panic sharpening his tone. "Tell me. _What?_"

Because Dean couldn't fix this if he didn't know what was wrong.

But Sam was unable to answer, remaining speechless either from the intensity of the pain or from lack of oxygen...or _both_ judging by the way Sam's face contorted, by the tense muscles in his neck and the way his chest heaved liked he was breathing against a vacuum.

Still crouched beside his brother on the church floor, Dean's gaze once again swept over Sam, knowing there was _something_ he wasn't seeing.

As if to prove it, Sam's back suddenly arched; the motion so severe that it seemed as though Sam had been jerked backwards, yanking a strangled moan from his closing throat.

Sam's eyes widened in panic, his hand releasing its grip on Dean's coat; first reaching for his neck as he struggled to breathe and then reaching for his back – the flaring pain a familiar sensation since he had felt it course through his arms numerous times, especially over the past eight hours.

Dean's gaze followed Sam's reach, "Sam. _What?_" he demanded, then blinked when he saw the whispering glow beneath the fabric of Sam's shirt.

Whatever supernatural force that had been in Sam's arms seconds ago having not vanished as it had originally seemed but had only _moved_ – the glow having traveled up Sam's arms, over his shoulders and settled in his lower back...which would explain why Sam had collapsed so suddenly.

_It's in me, Dean._

And Sam had been right.

Whatever this was hadn't left Sam's body. It had just changed positions.

Dean swallowed, staring at the glowing _whatever_ causing Sam to writhe in agony on the floor.

_You don't know what this feels like_, Sam had told him.

But Dean was getting a damn good idea now.

Dean shook his head. "Okay..." he announced, instantly done with feeling helpless and instead deciding their next move. "Okay, Sammy. Let's go..." he told his brother as he hoisted the kid off the floor and draped Sam's arm over his shoulder.

Sam's eyes squeezed shut in pain, his long legs wobbly like a newborn foal as he grunted and sagged against his brother.

"Easy. Just hang on..." Dean urged, wrapping his arm around Sam's waist as they started moving forward. "Just hang on, man. We're going home."

_Home_ meaning the Impala...meaning the Batcave...meaning anywhere Dean could take his brother that was relatively safe, anywhere he could settle Sam and figure out what the hell was going on.

Two steps toward the door, Sam stumbled.

Dean paused. "Whoa, Sammy. Easy..." he soothed and readjusted his grip on his brother; frowning as it seemed Sam's legs were suddenly unable to hold _any_ of his weight.

That couldn't be a good sign.

Dean glanced at Sam as his brother slumped against him; his body clearly trying to return itself to the floor.

"No," Dean denied and tightened his grip. "Come on, Sam. Stay with me. Just a few more steps to the door..."

Sam gasped his response – a horrible, strangled sound – and then gasped again; one gasp following another as he struggled to breathe.

Dean cringed, not knowing which was worse – Sam's earlier silence or the harsh wheezing that had now taken its place.

The gasping continued – Sam looking as panicked as Dean felt.

"It's okay," Dean automatically assured and started moving forward again, carrying Sam with him.

_I can carry you._

"You're okay," Dean continued to soothe his brother as they approached the church doors.

Within seconds, those doors burst open.

"I gotcha, little brother," Dean told Sam as they spilled into the damp darkness, his voice strained from bearing all of the kid's weight as they cleared the doors and went down the steps. "You're gonna be just fine..."

...though that seemed to be a lie even as Dean said it.

Because Sam continued to gasp and stumble despite Dean's help, making it only as far as the Impala's front wheel on the passenger side before once again collapsing.

And Dean once again followed him down.

"Sam!" Dean called, kneeling in the mud beside his brother. "Sam!" he repeated, cupping the kid's pale face as thunder rumbled above.

Sam gasped, his head rocking back and forth against the Impala; his mouth open, his eyes wide and _so fucking scared_.

Dean could relate, his heart pounding so hard and fast he was sure it would explode.

Because there was something strangely familiar about this...

Dean shook his head, trying to ignore the growing déjà vu of this moment.

The big brother remembering all too well when he had cupped the pale face of his unresponsive little brother in a different place; a different night several years ago when they had both been on their knees in the mud as thunder had rumbled above and Sam had slipped away at Cold Oak.

What had just happened in the church was eerily similar – Sam's closed eyes, open mouth, head thrown back in unspeakable pain before he dropped to the floor.

Just like Sam had dropped at Cold Oak when Jake had shoved the knife in Sam's back and had severed his spine.

Sam had been unable to stand, unable to speak.

Dean swallowed at the memory, staring at his brother now as Sam writhed in pain on the muddy ground from the glowing force seizing his back; the kid sitting up only because the Impala and Dean were bracing him; Sam's eyes closed as he gasped and clutched his chest and throat.

Realization slowly dawned.

_Oh, god..._

Sam's spine...

Dean shook his head in denial at the thought even as Kevin's words about the trials echoed in his mind.

_Whosoever chooses to undertake these tasks should fear not danger nor death..._

Dean's heart beat painfully hard in his chest.

_...nor getting your spine ripped out through your mouth for all eternity._

Dean swallowed against the urge to throw up as the realization took root; as the potential explanation for Sam's current condition continued to echo in an endless loop, becoming more plausible with every repetition.

After all, a person couldn't walk if his spine was being ripped out...and couldn't talk – or _breathe_ – if his spine was exiting through his mouth.

But that didn't seem to be happening right now.

Dean had remained focused on his brother since Sam had collapsed in the mud, and as far as Dean could tell, Sam's spine was not coming through his mouth – _thank god_.

So...what?

Was the last line some kind of abstract, figurative bullshit?

Sam's spine not _actually_ being ripped out through his mouth – just _feeling_ like it was, just causing his body to react as though it was; causing pain and paralysis while taking his breath and his ability to speak.

Dean clenched his jaw at the possibility, pissed and scared.

Because _no fucking way_ had he just stopped Sam from killing himself in this third trial only to watch his little brother live the rest of his life wishing he was dead.

_No fucking way._

"Cas!" Dean yelled, hoping the angel was nearby; hoping Cas could hear him; hoping he could help even though he had previously said that Sam was damaged beyond his ability to heal.

Dean's voice echoed in the darkness.

No one answered except Sam – those gasping breaths.

Perhaps that was what someone sounded like when their spine was being figuratively ripped out of their mouth.

It certainly couldn't sound any worse.

And Dean certainly couldn't be more panicked.

"Castiel!" Dean growled, cutting his eyes over his shoulder.

But again, there was no response.

Just Sam's wheezing, his fingers brushing the edge of the Dean's coat.

"Where the hell are you?" Dean muttered about Cas's absence and then directed his attention back to Sam. "Hey. I'm right here..." he assured, feeling Sam's reaching fingers. "_Right here_. I'm not gonna leave you..."

_I'm not gonna leave you._

Because Dean didn't leave Sam by himself even when Dean was being beaten to death at the hands of Lucifer...and he wasn't leaving his brother alone now.

_It's you and me against the world._

Even when the world felt like it was fucking crumbling..._again_.

Dean continued to kneel beside his brother in the mud, one had still cupping Sam's face while the other rested on his shoulder.

"Sammy..." Dean called, knowing he needed to get the kid to his feet; needed to load Sam in the Impala and then haul ass to the Batcave.

Because something bad was about to happen; something besides what was already happening to Sam.

Dean could feel it; had been a hunter long enough to sense when bad shit was coming.

_And bad shit was coming._

...which meant Dean needed to get his brother off the ground, in the Impala, and back home to the relative safety of their bunker.

Not to mention that Kevin should still be there; should still be hunkered down in the Batcave waiting for all of this to be over, waiting for them to return.

And if anyone could help them figure this out – what happened when a person didn't complete a trial and how they could reverse the effects – it was Kevin.

Dean nodded, his decision made.

"Sammy..." he called again, raising his voice to be heard over Sam's surprisingly loud gasps.

Sam didn't respond, his eyes closed; his arm still crossed over his chest; his hand still clutching his throat in the classic sign of someone choking.

Maybe figuratively choking on his own spine...

Dean swallowed at the possibility – because how the fuck was he supposed to fix that?

He was pretty sure _that _little trick wasn't in any of the journals or books back at the Batcave.

They could only hope the answer was somewhere in the tablets and that Kevin could translate toot fucking sweet.

Because Sam's life depended on it.

Dean sighed, reminding himself to handle one crisis at a time.

And right now – he needed to get Sam home.

That was step one.

They would figure out the rest later.

_Just like we always do..._

Dean nodded at the memory of what he had told Sam earlier in the church.

And he had meant it.

They would figure this out.

Even something as fucked up as having your spine ripped out of your mouth...

But in the meantime, Dean would carry his brother.

Just like he always did.

_I can carry you._

Dean nodded again and rubbed Sam's shoulder as the kid continued to sit beside him in the mud next to the Impala's front wheel.

"Sammy..."

And that's when he heard it – a vague but distinct sound of something opening.

Dean blinked, recognizing the sound as otherworldly, and glanced over his shoulder, then up at the sky as the lingering clouds from the earlier storm began to separate.

The dark suddenly illuminated by pockets of light scattered through the clouds – first one...then two...then three...then too many to count; some appearing within seconds of each other, while others appeared simultaneously.

"No, Cas..." Dean breathed, still looking up at the sky while keeping his hand on Sam's shoulder; monitoring the developing situation as well as his brother's condition.

Beside him, Sam had stopped gasping but was thankfully still breathing, was still sluggishly moving beneath Dean's touch.

Above, the clouds continued to part; the night sky turning orange with flaming streaks plunging to the ground.

Most civilians who were watching this across the world were probably dazzled and impressed by what they assumed was an unannounced meteor shower; shooting stars and all that crap.

Make a wish.

But no.

That wasn't what this was.

That wasn't what was happening.

Not even close.

No wishes would be granted tonight.

What Dean was seeing could only mean one thing.

Well..._two_ things.

One, Cas had failed his mission – everything having apparently gone to shit with Naomi and Metatron.

And two...

Dean's thoughts scattered as one of the falling objects suddenly splashed into the nearby lake; the effect so remarkable it was like a fucking whale had just dropped from the sky.

Dean blinked, his eyes widening as he instinctively raised his arm to shield himself and Sam from any potential danger.

Sam startled at the sound. "What's happening?"

Dean startled at the sound of Sam's voice and glanced at his brother; relieved to hear Sam speak.

But Sam stared up at the sky, once again speechless; his mouth open only to quietly wheeze.

Dean would take it.

At least it wasn't the harsh gasps of earlier...

There was a beat of silence.

"Angels..." Dean finally reported in response to Sam's question. "They're falling."

And wasn't that just fan-fucking-tastic?

Nothing but peace, love, and hugs could result from this turn of events.

Dean shook his head in disgust. "Dammit, Cas. You had _one_ job..."

And that was to keep this shit from happening.

Dean sighed and then frowned as he noticed movement in the water; the fallen angel surfacing with a whoosh and flailing as it attempted to swim ashore.

And that was their cue to leave.

Not to mention the other angels beginning to land not only in the lake but in the yard surrounding the church; some of them still flaming when they hit the ground, their smoldering bodies igniting the damp grass with holy fire.

And yeah, it was time to _fucking move_.

Because Dean was in no mood to tangle with undoubtedly pissed angels freshly stripped of their powers and dumped from Heaven...and Sam was in no condition.

Even now the kid was struggling to breathe again; the quiet wheezes replaced with the strangled gasps from before.

Dean cringed at the painful sounds. "Sammy..."

Sam turned his head in the direction of Dean's voice but didn't speak.

"We have to go," Dean told his brother, already bending forward to slip his shoulder under Sam's arm.

Sam blinked in response, disoriented from the intense agony burning through his back.

The angels continued to fall, some splashing in the lake while others thumped into the ground. Their wings burning off in transit to earth; some extinguished before landing while others continued to fuel the flames in the churchyard.

The fire began to creep toward the brothers.

Dean glanced at the flames, then back to his brother. "Alright, Sam. Up..." he ordered, wincing as he got to his feet; his boots squishing in the mud as he brought Sam with him.

Only Sam wasn't standing.

Sam _couldn't_ stand.

"Whoa..." Dean blurted, stumbling forward before shifting Sam's weight and regaining his balance.

Dean frowned his confusion and glanced at his brother, swallowing as he realized his earlier suspicion about Sam's paralysis was true.

Because Sam just hanging there beside him; the kid's legs completely lax, not capable of moving much less supporting his weight.

If Dean had not lifted his brother, Sam would have never gotten to his feet.

If Dean had not been securely holding his brother now, Sam would have collapsed back to the ground unable to stop himself.

Because Sam was paralyzed.

And Sam knew it, too; his expression panicked, his eyes welling with tears at the realization that he couldn't move his legs...couldn't even _feel_them as the glowing force in his back paralyzed him from the waist down.

Dean shook his head, stunned and momentarily speechless.

Because now what?

_Fuck!_

Dean clenched his jaw, swallowed. "It's okay," he assured his understandably upset little brother even as his own heart pounded with fear and dread and panic.

Because seriously...what the fuck were they going to do now?

Dean swallowed again. "It's okay," he repeated.

Because somehow he would _make_ this okay; would figure out a way to fix this.

Sam opened his mouth to speak but gasped his response instead; his breaths becoming more restricted from the strain of stress and emotion...and from the new realization that in addition to not being able to stand, he couldn't _speak_ anymore, either.

The two words he had spoken only seconds ago being beyond him now; his voice gone as he was barely able to manage one inhalation after another without choking.

Dean stared at his brother.

..._your spine ripped out of your mouth..._

That would certainly obstruct a person's breathing; would certainly make it difficult to speak if you were choking on your spine.

Dean continued to stare, hoping the same thought wasn't occurring to Sam; hoping Sam was too panicked and disoriented to remember Kevin's warning about the trials all those weeks ago.

Though Dean couldn't help but wonder – by stopping Sam from finishing the third trial, had he unintentionally sentenced his little brother to _this?_

Sam had shown that he didn't fear danger because he had killed a hellhound.

He had shown that he didn't fear death because he had gone to Purgatory and Hell and then had made it back topside alive.

But this whole spine-ripped-out-of-your-mouth crap – was that what Sam was showing he didn't fear by curing a demon?

That made zero fucking sense.

But whether or not it made sense, was this outcome of _not_ finishing the third trial? Would Sam be paralyzed for the rest of his life? Unable to speak and struggling for every breath?

Was this Dean's fault?

Dean clenched his jaw and tightened his grip around Sam, silently demanding himself to get a fucking grip.

Beside him, Sam continued to limply rest against Dean, openly crying as he was held up only by Dean's unyielding grip.

And that was fine.

Because Sam was allowed to lose his shit.

He was the one currently unable to move his legs, unable to speak, and on the verge of being unable to fucking _breathe_.

But Dean – no.

Dean needed to keep his shit together – and he needed to do it _right fucking now_.

They didn't have time for this.

The sky was falling...and the ground was burning...and Sam was counting on him; was counting on Dean to literally carry him now.

_I can carry you._

Dean sighed, the sound shakier than he intended, and forced a smile as he focused on Sam.

Tears continued to freely streak Sam's cheeks.

Because this was too much – was too fucking much to bear.

Sam had gone from confessing his greatest sin to beginning all over again – being nothing but a burden Dean if he couldn't walk or talk. Even now, Sam could imagine Dean seeking out others for help that Sam was unable to give, making this another disappointment added to the long list of ways Sam had let Dean down over the years.

Sam gasped a noisy breath, his tears continuing to flow.

Something twisted deep inside Dean's chest at the sight, _hating_ when his little brother was _this_ upset; was _this_ broken.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy..." Dean told his brother; desperate to reassure, to take Sam's pain. "We're gonna go home and talk to Kevin and figure this out...and everything's gonna be okay."

Please, _please_ let that be true.

"You hear me?"

Sam's only response was to gasp, cough, swallow...repeat.

Dean frowned, still holding his brother beside him. "Easy, Sammy..."

Because god, please don't let the kid cough up blood right now.

Neither of them could handle that reminder - the reminder of how damaged Sam was internally.

Above, the sky continued to glow an eerie orange as angels plunged from Heaven.

The fire in the churchyard continued its slow approach as dazed angels were beginning to rouse.

In the lake, the angel that was closest to them was reaching the shore, reminding Dean of the urgency of their situation.

It was time to go.

_Now._

"Alright, Sammy..." Dean commented, shifting beneath his brother's weight and awkwardly shuffling forward in the mud, bringing Sam with him.

The big brother being careful as he maneuvered his little brother; thankful for the years of experience that allowed him to balance Sam against his shoulder and hip and hold the kid steady while opening the passenger side door.

Sam breathed noisily, grunting as pain flared when Dean lowered him into the passenger seat.

"Sorry. Just take it easy..." Dean soothed, carefully lifting Sam's legs and folding them into the floorboard; unnerved to think that his brother couldn't feel his touch.

Sam blinked.

Dean swallowed.

This was going to take some getting used to.

Though hopefully they wouldn't _have_ to get used to it; hopefully this was temporary, not permanent.

The paralysis, the inability to speak, the struggle to breathe...the _getting your spine ripped out through your mouth._

All of it temporary, despite the "for all eternity" promise tacked to the end of the warning about undertaking the trials.

And if this wasn't temporary, there _had_ to be something they could do; something to counteract the effects of not completing the third trial if these effects didn't wear off on their own.

Some spell..._something_ that would return Sam's health.

And hopefully Kevin would know.

In fact, Dean would call the prophet as soon as they got on the road; would give Kevin a heads up that they were coming home and needed answers _right fucking now_.

But first, they had to _get on the road_.

Dean swallowed again, his buzzing mind driving him fucking crazy.

One thing at a time...

Dean sighed, smiled at his brother. "Sammy, you good?"

And "good" had never been so relative.

Sam inhaled a shaky breath, not bothering to wipe the fresh tears from his cheeks as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the seat.

Dean resisted the urge to cry as well and instead squeezed his brother's shoulder in silent comfort and support; lingering beside Sam before closing the passenger door and crossing in front of the Impala.

Dean glanced up at the sky aglow with orange as angels continued to fall; his gaze then flickering to the angels in the churchyard and in the lake and to the fire steadily creeping toward them.

Funny how he had forgotten about that – about _all_ of that – in the midst of taking care of Sam; how his brother had been his only focus.

But then again, Dean was not surprised.

Because fuck the world.

Sam was the only thing that mattered.

On Dean's list of priorities, _nothing_ came before his little brother.

_Nothing._

Dean nodded in agreement and then shook his head, vaguely wondering where Cas was...and how many angels were in Heaven...and if they were _all_ falling...or if Metatron was keeping some as pets.

Dean shook his head again in disgust at the thought of that particular angel. "What a dick..." he growled and then opened the driver's side door, slipping behind the steering wheel and glancing at Sam. "Hey..."

Sam turned to look at Dean, silent except for the constant wheezing made harsher by crying.

But words weren't needed; were never needed.

Dean smiled softly. "C'mere..." he called, reaching for Sam and carefully pulling him across the bench seat; trying to ignore how his brother's legs dragged in the floorboard.

Sam didn't resist, settling against Dean and resting against his brother's shoulder with a strangled sigh as Dean cranked the Impala and backed her away from the church.

Sam stared at the old building through the rain-splattered windshield, vaguely wondering what would happen to Crowley still tied inside – more human than demon.

Would he somehow escape?

Would he burn in the fire consuming the churchyard?

It was hard to say.

Sam sighed again, then blinked; his gaze shifting to the sky – the falling angels blurry as he watched them through his tears.

Beside him, Dean shifted gears and steered the Impala forward, driving past the fire and the dazed angels getting to their feet.

Sam tilted his head back for a better breath; gasped anyway, coughed, swallowed...and settled in for the ride back home.

Hoping Dean was right; hoping they could figure this out; hoping Kevin could help.

But for now, Sam found comfort in his big brother as he rested against Dean and tried not to think about his spine being ripped out of his mouth.

* * *

_**FIN**_


End file.
